


Come Away With Me

by nirvhannahcornell



Category: Metallica
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Food as a Metaphor for Love, imagine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 05:58:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19267204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nirvhannahcornell/pseuds/nirvhannahcornell
Summary: Picture this: you, dear reader, are with a young Mr. Lars and you're cooking him dinner. Sweet little one shot I wrote last night while making dinner myself<3





	Come Away With Me

Lars, with his long luxurious hair down past his shoulders and sweet little smile that softens every part of his face, has been your boyfriend for the past few weeks. You couldn’t resist saying no to that lovely round face and that charming Danish accent, including the way in which he tries to grasp onto certain English words; well, that, and you were also eager to tell your mom that you met a Danish boy and you wondered if he might be the one. The two of you had had lunch together, but one evening, he called you and at one point, as you were conversing with one another, he asked you if he could come over for dinner one night.  
Come over? Not going out?  
A bit of an offbeat suggestion but you take charge of it and grab the bull by the horns. It makes sense given Mother told you there are fewer things in life that are less erotic than a girl finding her way into a boy’s heart through his stomach.  
You want to make something authentic, something to remind him of home, but there’s not much you know about the food of Denmark aside from perhaps kringle and danishes, and you have no idea how to make either one of them. So, the day of, mere hours before the date, you search about Mother’s recipes in her cookbooks for something, anything, that tickles your fancy. You have food in the pantry, but not much. You are also on a budget so you won’t be making caviar on fancy-shmancy toast any time soon.  
And then, like a flash of brilliant lightning in a pitch-dark sky, you find pasta carbonara. All it calls for is angle hair spaghetti, mozzarella and Parmesan cheese, salt, pepper, garlic, oregano, and bits of bacon. It’s perfect!  
You thank her with a hug before heading back to your place and you vow to bring back some for her if there’s some left over. Moreover, the dish itself takes a mere twenty minutes to make and thus you can make yourself look lovely for him.  
Once returning home, you don’t waste any time as you take off your clothes and head straight for the shower. You wash and brush your hair, and brush your teeth as well, although it would make hardly a difference given you will be eating a nice, voluptuous dinner with that young Danish buck.  
You make sure your cute evening dress, the red wine colored one with the black velvet polka dots, has no wrinkles, and then you decide to slip on your nice perfume once you are finished making dinner.  
The pasta is simple: water in a pot with a pinch of salt brought up to a boil and then you put in the angel hair. But then you wonder if you should cook the bacon first and then slice it, or vice verse, but then you look at the time and realize he’ll be there in half an hour, and thus you decide on the latter.  
The cheese melts in a sauce pan with some cream, the salt and pepper, and some minced garlic. The kitchen smells warm and beautiful, and you hope he’ll like this given he didn’t specify what he wanted. Once the carbonara is finished, you drizzle it over the angel hair and let it rest in the pot. You run back into your room to put on the perfume when you hear a knock on the door. It’s him!  
Nervous, you walk back to the front door and open it to see him standing there, dressed in fitted black jeans and a black buttoned shirt with the top two buttons undone to emphasize his chest. A soft musk is emerging off of his neck, and his hair looks clean and as if he had sat down for an hour in order to brush it. He greets you with that sweet smile accompanied with an ever so faint dimple in his chin; his apple cheeks round and full, so round in fact that you just want to kiss them and kiss them again and again.  
“Hello, my sweet,” he greets you, leaning forward for a gentle peck on the cheek, and you return the favor with him.  
“Are you hungry?” you ask him as he enters the flat.  
“Starving—oh my God, it smells incredible in here.”  
The two of you head into the kitchen and he offers to serve you first.  
“You’re my guest, though,” you point out as he reaches for the wooden spoon next to the pot.  
“Ah, yes, but I must be the gentleman, my lady,” he notes, filling your bowl with the pasta and the carbonara. He gives you the bowl and you feel your face growing warm. That smile returns to his face, but it’s more off to the side: a smirk, a playful little grin in the wake of the blush crossing your face.  
He serves himself and you both take a seat at the table next to the window. He takes a whiff of the dish with his eyes closed and his cheekbones full and soft looking.  
For a moment, during your dinner with him, you stop to watch him. He is eating at a slow pace, as if he is savoring the flavor of the cheese, the bacon bits, and the minces of garlic. He takes a bite and slides the times of the fork out of his mouth with a contented smile on his face. He is at peace here, showing you his true self, his truest softest self right there on his face. He is a beautiful boy.  
You think to yourself, “I did well, picking him”, as you resume eating.  
Then, at one point, as he finishes every bite of pasta in his bowl, he climbs to his feet. Seconds, already?  
No. He kneels down next to you, close to your face as if he’s about to kiss you.  
“Come away with me,” he whispers to you. You raise an eyebrow at his request.  
“Come away with you?” you echo back to him. “What do you mean?”  
“Come with me—back home. To Denmark. Come home with me to meet my parents and my grandparents and my godfather. Please, my darling. Come away with me.”  
You swallow your final bite of pasta, unsure of what to tell him. He touches your hand resting there on the top of the table.  
“Lars,” you tell him, “this is a little soon, don’t you think? I need to get my passport—”  
“Not an issue. That’ll take no time.”  
“—ask for time off—”  
“Work sucks, anyway.”  
“—tell my parents—”  
“They can come along!”  
You grimace, but at the same time, you don’t want to tell him off. This is not a Motörhead concert, even though you would gladly take him to see the shit out of them; Deep Purple, too. This is his home. He wants to take you home with him. You also told your parents about him, how he was the sweet Danish boy with the good manners and who was also funny and hot. You told them, Mother in particular, that you had this feeling that he was the one.  
He stares at you with those green irises: like a breath of fresh air straight out of Copenhagen. His little cherry lips tremble a bit. He’s like a little Scandinavian cherub, and you feel that if you refuse, you will make him cry. You will be the girl who made a sweet boy cry.  
You swallow and decide that it’s not just for him, but for you, too. You’ll be meeting his family and you’ll be amongst his people. It is time to use that nice winter coat after all as well.  
“Okay,” you finally say. His face lights up.  
“Okay?” he reiterates, squeezing your hand. “Okay! You will do it?”  
“Yes!” you tell him, feeling yourself grow excited.  
“Oh!” He throws his arms around you and gives you a kiss on the cheek. You begin planning inside of your mind as he climbs to his feet and doubles back to the stove for seconds, and all the while, he’s got the biggest smile you’ve ever seen upon his face.


End file.
